


Moscow Nights

by sailorgreywolf



Series: The Empty Throne [4]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-01
Updated: 2018-03-01
Packaged: 2019-03-25 08:38:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13830501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sailorgreywolf/pseuds/sailorgreywolf
Summary: The song that goes with this story is Moscow Nights by The Red Army Choir





	Moscow Nights

**Author's Note:**

> The song that goes with this story is Moscow Nights by The Red Army Choir

The halls of the Winter palace were marred by the black of gunpowder. The guns had done their work in destroying this monument to the old dynasty. But, as Russia returned to this place, after choosing to turn his back on the dynasty that had ruled him for so long, he felt a terrible nostalgia.

War and privation had made this path necessary. The monarchy had failed in every way; Nicholas had tarnished the hallowed glow of the tsardom long before he was removed from power.

Now Russia refused to place his fate and his glory in the hands of men like this again. He would no longer allow himself to be hampered by having to obey the whims of imbeciles and fools who would rather flatter themselves or listening to the inane ramblings of mystics than focus on the needs of their people. He had been weakened and hurt by too many terrible tsars to suffer through another.

This new era would bring the change he had longed for, but failed to achieve for so long. But, he felt a pain deep in his heart at the passing of this era. He, the bulwark of conservatism and a tsarist for so long, had become a beacon of revolution.

But, he mused to himself as his steps echoed in the abandoned hall, a dog would be loyal so long as it was fed, but if it was kicked enough it would eventually bite, even if it had once loved its master dearly.

He turned a corner to a hall he knew very well, where many of the portraits of his former rulers still hung. He knew the one closest to the door he had entered was of Nicholas, who had fled the palace. The portrait alone was vandalized; the knives of revolutionaries had made short work of the canvas. But the others remained, and Russia felt that there was judgement in some of their eyes, but he ignored it; it came from the part of him that was still loyal to the Romanovs. With time, that was certain to fade.

He stopped in front of the portrait of one of the few monarchs who had wanted the best for him and created reforms that made him stronger. He felt a strong sense of regret looking up into her beautiful face. Though he wanted to move forward, he couldn’t help but think of a conversation that had occurred in this very hallway with the only tsarina who had ever changed his life.

* * *

 

It was early morning in Petersburg and a solitary woman walked the halls while the rest of the royal family. Catherine Alekseyevna, she turned the name over in her mind. It felt like a dress that was made for a woman much larger than herself. It was not yet familiar nor did it seem to fit her. It was the name that Peter the Great had given his second wife, and it made a poor hand-me-down.  
Mentally, she pulled the seams closer, trying to shed the name Princess Sophia and embrace this new self. She wanted the Russian name to fit, now that her wedding to the heir to the Russian throne was so imminent. There was no point in holding onto a Prussian name, even if she wished that she had been allowed to have her father’s name for her patronymic at least. But the Empress had said that it would be inappropriate because he was a general in the Prussian army. Dutifully, Catherine had bowed her head and taken on the new name, though it had not been of her choosing.

For now, she must say nothing and try to find her way through the intrigues of this court. She turned her mind away from the thought of her name, only dwelling on it a moment longer to remind herself that she must be careful to always answer to the name Catherine and not to the name Sophia. She could not allow even her mother to call her by the name that she now had left behind her. She must allow herself no time for adjustment, because hesitation may be seen as weakness or betrayal. In a court where a tsar could be overthrown by a shift in public support, it was vital that she was careful with her words and actions.

Then, determined as ever to fit in her new role, she began with the task that she always woke early to do. She said, pronouncing the words as loudly and clearly as she dared, so that the sound would ring off of the empty walls and carry back to her so she could hear her own mistakes, “I walk, he walks, she walks, they walk.”

The Russian language still felt uncomfortable on her tongue, but she knew that practice would train the muscle. She refused to be like her fiancé; Peter stubbornly refused to speak any Russian. She would be seen as an intruder in this land if she did not learn the language. Her tutor had so far been impressed with the progress that she had made, but that was no reason to become complacent.

She continued to walk, conjugating verbs from her memory and being sure to correct a sound if it rolled off her tongue incorrectly. This early, there was no one to hear when she blundered on her words. The servants sometimes would speak with her, but many of them did not dare to. But, she preferred to speak to them because it gave her yet another form of practice.  
She said, entering the long gallery of portraits, “I speak, he speaks, she speaks, they speak.”

Catherine’s eyes were drawn to the portraits as she passed them, and it was fascinating to see the way they changed. She stopped walking in front of the portrait of the woman who was her namesake. She looked powerful, like the kind of woman who could match a man like Peter and become Empress after him.

Barely 16 and dwarfed by the portraits of the monarchs of the Russian empire, she felt again like it would take incredible wit and strength to not be drowned by this court. She continued her recital of her growing vocabulary at a higher volume.

She had started to read the histories and understand this land, but there was so much left to know. But, she was certain that understanding and love would endear her to the country. Peter might cling to his German roots, but it would be to his detriment in time. Perhaps when they were married, she would be able to change his mind on the matter.

She stopped abruptly when she heard the sound of footsteps in the room directly to the left. Concerned that she had woken someone, she fell silent and turned. The footsteps sounded hurried, which only intensified her sense of unease.

A tall man came walking into the room quickly, a letter in his hand. But, when he realized that he was not alone, he turned to her and tried to smile. Catherine recognized him immediately, though she had only seen him before at a distance or in formal setting. Russia was usually not far from his empress and Catherine had never had a chance to talk to him alone. As far as she could tell, he was a tall imposing man, and the small smile on his lips was the first she had ever seen. He had never looked disapproving of her, unlike many of Empress’s ministers, just distant and resigned.

But, the smile on his face was attempting to be cordial. He said, “Good morning, Grand Duchess.” He said it in German, presumably because he thought it would be polite to speak to her in her native tongue. It was considerate, even sweet, of him. But, she would rather have the chance to practice, even with him, though he probably knew the language better than anyone alive.

She said, as gently as she knew how to, “Please speak Russian to me,-“ She paused when she realized that she did not know his name and did not want to call him by his title.  
He supplied, “Ivan Ivanovich.” Then he continued, switching easily to his own language, “I thought you did not speak Russian.”

She had to repress a small smile when she responded, “I have been learning.”

She could see a spark of interest in his eyes, but he did not explain it. But it gave Catherine the impression that it was not common for people to put in such an effort. Then the thought crossed her mind that it was because of her fiancé, who must always address his future empire in German.

Russia said, “I only spoke my own language for a very long time, so I understand. If you would like my help, I would be glad to provide it.” He glanced towards the side of the hall where the portraits of the pre-Petrine Romanovs hung, though the look in his eyes seemed like he was even further away. She wondered if he was thinking back to being small isolated Muscovy. The smile fell from his face as he seemed to think back on worse times.

To break the line of thought, Catherine said, “Who taught you to speak German?” It was meant to be an easy question, but she was also genuinely curious. And it seemed to be a good opportunity to get to know Russia. But, for a moment, she thought that he might not answer.

But he turned back to her and his smile returned to his lips as he pointed at the portrait just to the right of the one she had been contemplating. Russia said, “He did. Peter Alexeyevich always liked Germans, even before he was tsar. He decreed that German should be the language of the court, and God help anyone who dared to disobey him.”

There was a new light in his eyes as he spoke of the father of the modern Russian empire. Catherine could call the emotion in his voice many things. Love and admiration were the words that came to mind, even a bit of awe at the power that Peter the Great had had over his court.

Catherine had heard stories about Peter the Great. He seemed to be a figure of legend here, especially while the reigning empress was his daughter and invoked much of his strategy. But, it was different to be standing next to the only person who had known Peter the Great personally and known him as a man.

The temptation to know more was too overwhelming when she was faced with such an incredible opportunity. Catherine said, “What kind of man was he?”  
When she stole a glance at Russia, there was a look of almost childish admiration on his face, and for the first time she realized how young he really looked.

Russia was perfectly willing to answer the question and said, “He was more a force of nature than a man. It is hard to explain the way that he would take up all the air in the room and leave your heart racing. I’ve never met anyone who could enforce his will quite like him.”

He paused for only a moment, and between the soft early morning light and the tone of his voice, Catherine felt like they were floating together back through history. She was about to ask him for clarification, but he continued on his own.  
He said, “It is easier to tell a story, I think. Peter Alexeyevich went to Europe for a while, and I was very concerned that he would be hurt in some way, because most of the others had been hostile to me. But, one day he came back. He came charging through the door of my room, and immediately demands that I sit down.

“He offered no explanation at all, but I followed his order because he was my emperor. He took out a razor and shaved off the stubble I had been growing. I confess it was not much to remove, but I was excited about it because it was the start of the beard I had wanted since I was small. I thought I would finally start looking like a proper boyar once it grew out. But, there I was, with my emperor removing the whiskers that I was so proud of. I remember exactly what he said while he was doing it, ‘Vanya, you are going to be a Western country from now on. You won’t need this beard anymore.’ I was so confused, but the way he said it was reassuring.”

I believed in his vision, though I still had no idea what he really meant. The next thing he did was take all of my caftans and throw them off the balcony.”

Catherine realized she must have looked shocked because Russia stopped speaking for a moment. She tried to smile encouragingly so that he would continue. And eventually, he did. He said, “It must have looked very strange from outside to see all of my clothing raining down. But Peter Alexeyevich never cared about what other people thought. When he had an idea, no force on heaven or earth could stop him. He insisted that I wear nothing but Western clothing from that moment on. Of course, that meant that I only had one set of clothing for a week and a half while new ones were being made. But Peter Alexeyevich kept telling me that I looked much better that way.”

He paused again and a look that was almost uncharacteristically mischievous appeared on his face before he said, “But I rescued some of my caftans and wore them at night when the Emperor was away. They were too comfortable to completely abandon.”

Catherine said, now that she felt that the story was over, “So that was why he was called ‘The Great?’ He brought you great change.” Russia nodded slowly, before saying, “He gave me a place in Europe and a future.” He turned back to look at the portrait of Peter the Great and mused, “But, who knows? Perhaps he will not be the last to be called ‘The Great.’ There is much that could change still.”

The last sentence was laden with a longing that Catherine felt in her heart. She had heard rumblings of change in Prussia; the king wrote to French philosophers who saw a new way forward for humanity. She too would like to read the work of Voltaire and correspond with him.

But, her ambition was reaching too far in her mind, as her mother always warned her against. In this climate, it was too dangerous to wonder or imagine change in the empire. Doing so would be perceived as plotting, and given the palace coups that had plagued the empire, it was only logical to see any reaching as dangerous. No, she must keep these thought to herself. She must say yes to all of the empress’s commands and say nothing of thoughts of the Enlightenment.

She said, trying to hide what she was thinking, “The future must always hold change. That is the course of time.” Russia tightened his hand on the letter he had completely forgotten. He was still looking at the portrait as he said, “Do you think so?”

He seemed to have something else he wanted to say, but he did not. Instead, he turned his attention to the letter he had in his hand. He looked at it and then said, “I should take this to Empress Elizabeth Petrovna. It is an important matter of state.”

He was about to leave, but Catherine wanted to make sure that he knew she appreciated the time he had spent talking to her. She said, “Thank you for speaking with me, Ivan Ivanovich.” Russia replied with a slight tilt of his head, “It was my pleasure, Catherine Alexeyevna. If you would like to speak again, you may send me a letter. The empress always wakes late and I would like to have coffee with you.”

The invitation hinted at a deeper feeling blossoming between them. Him extending the invitation made it easier for Catherine to accept. She liked the idea of being able to speak to him again, and mentally made the note that after a while she should take him up on the offer. But, it should not be soon because it would seem far too eager.

But as Russia walked away, she couldn’t help but think of how nice it would be to have a friend who she could discuss literature and language with, and it brought a smile to her face.

* * *

 

The years passed and the Princess Sophia faded away and was replaced by the Grand Duchess Catherine Alexeyeva, the unhappy wife, who was now married to the tsar. War had come and gone, with the acrimonious end turning the entire army against her husband. Elizabeth Petrovna had not been dead for more than a month and Peter Fyordovich had reveled in his position, doing as he pleased as openly and childishly as possible.

These years had been very different for Catherine. Without the presence of her husband, who spent far too much time with his toy army, she had been free to pursue her own interests in science and political philosophy. As she had dreamed, she corresponded with French philosophers and was a patron of the sciences. She had done this all with very few friends in the court who would support her.

But, she was glad that she could count her country among her closest friends. He had never denied a request to speak with her, even if the matter was a small one. It had always perplexed her how he could so easily find the time to speak to her when he had the matters of the empire to deal with, but she would never question it. If he chose to prioritize her, then she would accept his affection graciously.

She was certain that he knew about her lovers, but there had never been any ulterior motives in his eyes, and she had become adept at seeing them in men. To her knowledge, he had never looked at any woman with a hint of lust, which was puzzling in itself. But, he had neither been judgmental nor doubtful of her nighttime activities, for which she was very grateful.

The afternoon was warm, even with the chill between everyone in the palace. There was a sense in the air that everyone was standing on a knife’s edge. Since the death of the Empress, there were hushed whispers everywhere, wondering what would be the future of the empire.

Catherine stepped out into the gardens at the Peterhof, enjoying the feeling of the warm sun on her skin. But, this was not for her own pleasure. She enjoyed her walks in the gardens, but there was no time for leisure. Peter Fyordovich had put so much in danger already, there was little time for her to pretend that she was content with her lonely life.

She saw the person she was seeking sitting on a chair reading a book that she had lent him. She walked up to him and said, “Ivan Ivanovich, would you walk with me?” She offered no excuse, she knew that he would not need one. Russia looked up and her and his expression changed as he recognized the urgency carefully hidden on her face.

He stood and said, “Of course, Catherine Alexeyevna.” He extended his arm to her, which she easily took. It was a gentlemanly gesture, even more so since she was hiding a pregnancy, which he already knew. As they walked, she started on a casual and unimportant note, “The gardens are in bloom early this year.”

Russia looked at her with an amused smile, “I doubt that is necessary. The Emperor has dissolved the Secret Chancellory, so no one is listening to us speak.”

She had done so out of old habit, and he was right to correct it. But, she would not say what she intended immediately. It was too bold to say it outright, and it would shock even Russia. Instead she said, “What do you think of the Emperor?”

Though she thought she knew what he would say, it was better to lead him into it. He replied, “What should I think of a tsar who would rather be king of Prussia or Sweden than be here with me? Or one who gives up gains I fought and bled for?”

She glanced at a scar on his neck that was still pink and healing. It looked as though a shorter man’s sword had grazed him there. It was the only thing he still had from the Seven Year’s War, as Peter had stripped him of all territorial gains. There was no mistaking the sound of resentment in his voice, which was unusual for him. He usually kept his critical thoughts about the emperor or empress to himself. But, with her, he was far less guarded.

He then said, “And what do you think of your husband?” She scoffed, letting him see just a bit of what she had been feeling during these years, “A husband must preform a husband’s duty. He must share his wife’s bed, be a father to her children, and protect her from her enemies. Peter Fyodrovich has never shared my bed, save for the night he fathered Paul. He has denied that Paul is his son. And he is quick to mock me to whoever will listen. I have no husband, except in name.”

She felt Russia’s hand patting her arm comfortingly, and she understand exactly what he was trying to convey. But it was not yet what she wanted to say. Though she did hold great personal resentment for her husband, but her feelings were not what was at stake. She did not cared if he married his limping, ugly mistress. He could do as he pleased in his own bedroom.

She said, “He plans to divorce and imprison me.” It was plain and stark as it left her tongue. And she watched her companion’s face carefully to see how he reacted. He grimaced as he nodded. So, he had known already.

He said, “I have heard him say so, but it is difficult to tell what he means and what he does not. But he does seem fond of his mistress.”

She placed her free hand on her stomach, which was slowly growing. She knew that this was the factor limiting the time she could wait. She said, “When he knows about this, he will have the grounds he needs for the divorce.”  
With his usual tact on the matter, he said, “Is Gregory Orlov the father?”

It was not a prying question, only one of clarification since she had changed lovers many times since she had given up hope of Peter’s company. She responded with a short nod. They walked further into the maze of plants in the gardens, further away from where stray passersby might hear them.

Only then did Russia say, “He is an interesting choice. He and his brothers control the guards regiment.” There was something between his words that reminded her that he had lived through many coups and was wiser to how they worked than he let on.

She said, “If one wanted to use it, his influence could be important. But that is only conjecture.” He had hit far too close to her own plans, and she was not yet ready to he frank about it. The dodge had little effect though.  
Russia said, “Well, if we are speaking in conjecture, then I can say that few people would support the emperor. But if we are speaking of definitions, then he has fulfilled none of his duties as emperor either. He does not support the army in war. He does not respect the church. So, perhaps if you do not have a husband, I do not have an emperor.”

He didn’t need to say more for her to understand what he was saying. She had his blessing to carry out the plan she had put in place. She nodded to herself, certain that she could take the next step forward. She said, “Peter Fyordovich’s reign will not last long. That much I can assure you.”

By then they had walked so far away from the palace that it would take a very committed spy to hear them, and there was little chance of that. Russia did not look at all shocked at the statement. Much to the contrary, he seemed to welcome it. Catherine carefully pulled her arm away from his and said, “I look forward to the next time we see each other.”

As she started to walk away, Russia grabbed her arm and said, “Katya, please be careful.”

* * *

 

Catherine was wearing the uniform of the guards as she sat beside her lover, Gregory Orlov, who had assured her that they would meet no resistance as she entered the capital. His hand was on hers as the approached the gates of the Winter Palace with bated breath. She could feel her heart in her throat. She thought of Paul, and of the son she had just given to the man who was sitting next to her. She thought of the way they would both suffer if she failed and spent the rest of her years locked in a Siberian monastery.

If Peter was able to stop her, then she would never see any of her children again. She wouldn’t be able to see her country again either, and he would certainly suffer for it. Russia would hurt and bleed if Peter had his way, and she could not allow that.

There was a letter between her jacket and the dress beneath it, right against her heart. She had received it barely 24 hours ago. It said, “Dearest Katya, I will meet you there. Love, Vanya.” This was the will of her country that she should take the throne, and the letter was a reminder of that. This was not selfishness or pride; it was necessary for Russia.

After a moment of anticipation, the gates of the Winter palace swung open and her carriage passed through them. She placed her hand against her breast and let out a low breath. She dared not feel relief yet, not until the crown of the empire was on her head.

But, as they stopped at the steps of the palace, no one stepped forward to challenge the Orlov brother who opened the door for her. Nor did anyone contradict Gregory as he shouted to the assembled crowd of nobles, “Make way for her Imperial Highness.”

Catherine stepped from the carriage to bows from the nobles in front of her, which made her heart race even faster. The hope she had carried and nurtured for so long had finally become reality. She walked up the steps and only stopped when she saw a face that was very familiar.

Russia had been standing as she approached, but when they were level he said, “Your Imperial Highness” and dropped to one knee.  
She reached out tenderly and caressed his face. She said, “There is no need for that, Ivan Ivanovich. You may rise; we have work to do.”

He smiled at her and stood. Russia had a new tsar.


End file.
